by Helin, Don
Alex pointed her index finger at him and pretended to fire. “Give that man a cigar.”
O’Brien turned another page in his notebook. “Let’s talk about Manpads.”
Alex smiled. “Sounds obscene.”
Sam’s mind reached back to the tiny drawer in his mental computer reserved for shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles. He knew that about 4000 missiles from the Iraqi arsenals were still unaccounted for after the Gulf War. These were doubly dangerous because they could be carried in a suitcase and used to shoot down commercial airlines, military passenger planes, or helicopters.
“I wish that’s all they were.” O’Brien looked down at his notebook. “During the Soviet era, large numbers of the missiles were distributed around the world. And to make matters worse, equal numbers of the American version, the Stinger, were delivered to the Mujahedeen in Afghanistan during their war with the Soviets in the ‘80s. We’re not sure where they are now or even how many are outstanding.”
Sam rubbed his fingers over the surface of the oak conference table. “Can you imagine what the militia members could do with shoulder-fired missiles once they’re properly trained?”
“Our analysts think there may be a storehouse of these missiles somewhere near here. Could it be on Oliver’s farm?”
“He’s got a couple of storage areas locked tight. I’ll have to get inside to see what’s there.”
O’Brien made a note. “Hopefully you’ll be able to find out for us.”
Sam nodded. The pressure inside his head started to build again. “Oliver has a private office protected with a fingerprint scanner.”
“Probably an Identix Scanner.” O’Brien shuffled some papers. “We’ve got to get you in there.”
“How do you propose I do that?” Sam asked.
“Get Oliver’s print on a piece of tape,” O’Brien continued. “We’ll use that to slip you past the scanner.”
“A guard comes by on a regular basis.” “It’s worth trying,” O’Brien replied. “The stakes are too high.”
“I don’t like the idea,” Sam said, “but I think you’re right.”
O’Brien nodded toward Alex. “We’ve fixed up an identification package for Alex. Same name, but she’s a college dropout looking for a good time. She’s currently a waitress in Harrisburg. Came back home to care for her sick momma.”
“Christ, can you imagine that?” Alex laughed.
O’Brien continued. “Her cover story is that she grew up in Minneapolis, attended the University of Minnesota, then moved to San Francisco. Never met you, but remembered watching you play football before she flunked out of college.”
“My hero.”
“Nice.” O’Brien looked back down at his notebook. “She arrived in Harrisburg to spend time with her dying mother, a devout Mennonite. Alex rebelled against the church. You two happen to run into one another.”
“Can you imagine me in the Mennonite Church, maybe singing in the choir?”
In spite of himself, Sam had to chuckle. “Probably out of tune.”
Alex slugged his shoulder.
Sam stood. “Better get my rear in gear. Oliver’s gonna get suspicious if I’m not back soon.”
“Let me give you another number, Sam.” Alex pulled a number out of her pocket and read it to him. “Memorize it. When you have a contact point, call.”
Sam took the sheet and committed the number to memory. He opened the door and smiled. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you all again.”
O’Brien called to Sam. “See if you can get Oliver’s thumbprint on a glass. That way we’ll have it if we need it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sam sat at his desk making notes for the evening class.
A knock on the door interrupted him. “Come in.”
Quentin Oliver stepped into the office. Sam felt a mental lurch. This was the first time Oliver had come to Sam’s office.
“How was the trip to Montreal?” Oliver glanced around the office.
Sam had double-checked the office when he’d gotten back, so there should be nothing that could tip off Oliver. “Have a seat.” He masked his face and waited.
Oliver eased into a chair and crossed his long legs. “How’s your friend? What’s her name?”
Sam thought about that for a moment. “I don’t know how she is. I’m not even sure where she is.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“She got all freaked out over some delivery man yesterday.” Sam tapped his pencil on the desk. “Guess she even called the police.”
“Was she assaulted?”
“Hell, no, but she gets antsy. Guess the guy didn’t strike her right. She called the cops … made a big deal out of it.”
“Is she all right?”
“I don’t know. She took off. Her mother won’t tell me where she is.”
Oliver gave a hint of a smile as he leaned forward. “That certainly is surprising.”
“Women … pain in the ass.”
General Oliver chuckled. “Kaminsky told me she was quite a lady. Intelligent and certainly good-looking.”
“I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Oliver nodded. “Your business is your business.”
“Yes, it is.” Sam leaned back in his chair. “How about a drink?”
Oliver re-crossed his legs and traced the crease in his fatigue pants. “What do you have?”
“Got some beers in my fridge.”
“That’d be fine.”
Sam reached into the refrigerator. He pulled out two bottles of Coors and poured one into a glass. He passed the glass to Oliver, then poured a second glass for himself.
Oliver took a sip. “Not bad. Won’t replace Johnny Walker, but not bad.” He took another sip. “What do you think of our state of training?”
Sam glanced at Oliver’s fingers on the glass as if they were gold. “It would help if I understood your strategy … you know, the mission you plan for the men. Then I could better answer your question.”
Oliver sipped his beer and looked past Sam at a point on the wall. “That’s going to have to wait.”
“Do I need to train them on anything heavier than rifles?”
“Not yet, but don’t count it out.” He pointed his finger at Sam. “But you haven’t answered my question. How are the men doing?”
“They’re going through the motions. I don’t see Popeye trying to build morale.” Sam cleared his throat. “And it would help if they had some feeling for the goal they’re working toward. These men are giving up their evenings but don’t have a sense of what’s in store.”
Oliver’s eyes seemed to seek out that spot on the wall again.
Sam didn’t want to push him too hard. “It won’t be long until I will share more.”
“Kaminsky getting settled in?” Sam almost slipped and said Kramer.
“Why do you ask?”
“He seemed like a decent guy, but so out of shape. I don’t see him helping with our mission.”
Oliver chuckled. “We need him for his mind, not his body.”
Sam took a swig of beer. “In answer to your question, the men have learned commo procedures, map reading, small unit tactics, and all but one or two have qualified with their weapons. The next step will be to challenge them against mock targets. At that point, I can better evaluate their progress to see if they need additional training.”
“I think you’re right. Tonight I’ll talk to them about our mission.” He finished his beer, put the glass down on Sam’s desk, and walked out the door, pulling it shut behind him.
Sam reached across the desk for the glass, trying not to smear the prints where Oliver had touched it.
The door opened and Oliver stuck his head in.
Sam almost dropped the glass.
“Ah, thanks for the beer.”
Sam waved as Oliver shut the door. He wrapped the glass in paper and placed it in his desk drawer.
He leaned back in his chair and processe
d what he’d learned. General Oliver had a specific target in mind. He planned to make use of Kaminsky’s expertise. Sam would see a mockup tonight. The action would happen not too far in the future.
Think, Thorpe. What could he be after? It must be something nearby, probably not more than an hour away. Could it be a chemical plant? Kaminsky had a degree in chemistry. There were a number of plants in eastern Pennsylvania.
The door flew open with a thud against the wall. Popeye stormed in. “What did he want?”
Sam looked up, then back down at his desk.
“Well?”
“I assume you’re talking about General Oliver.”
“Look, Thorpe, don’t be a pain in the ass.”
“Listen, asshole, we’re supposed to be on the same side, but you act like I’m your stooge. I don’t care for you barging into my office. If you do it again, I’ll throw your ass out.”
Popeye slumped in a chair. “Point taken. It’s important to me that this operation goes well. Goddamn general is hard to read.”
“Generals tend to be like that.”
Popeye smiled. First time Sam had seen him smile.
Sam decided to let him down easy. “The general wanted to know how the men were doing.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Maybe you should ask General Oliver.”
“Come on, Thorpe.” He pushed himself up and walked over to the door, then turned back. “All right. I’m sorry I barged in here. It’s just … well … it’s important to me what the general thinks.”
“I told him the men were progressing.” Sam paused for effect. “I suggested it’s time for him to provide a mission statement and mockup for the men to train against.”
Popeye raised his eyebrows. “And?”
“He said he’d think about it. Do you have any idea what he’s planning? It would help me focus the training program.”
“No.” Popeye looked down and slumped back against the wall.
Sam thought for a moment, then plunged ahead. “What about Kaminsky? Do you know why he’s here?”
“No.” Popeye opened the door, then turned back again. “And you shouldn’t ask.”
The door slammed shut. Well, Thorpe, you stirred things up.
Professor Kaminsky wiped sweat from his red face with a handkerchief and opened his collar another button. His shirt had sweat marks under the armpits. “I’m still bothered by Thorpe.”
“Why?” General Oliver leaned back in the leather chair in his study and puffed on his cigar.
“I’m not sure. Something seems a little off with him. Too much like a Mr. Clean to be involved in an operation like this.”
“He’s not aware of our goal.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize that.” Kaminsky drained his glass and chewed on an ice cube. He sounded like a beaver gnawing on a tree limb. “Are you going to bring him in on the plan?”
“I’ll have to or let him go.” Oliver tapped his pen on the end table, making a sound like a miniature machine gun.
Kaminsky thought about that for a few minutes. “What’s the next step?”
Oliver puffed on his cigar, then exhaled the smoke into the air. “It’s time to move into the safe room.” He rose and walked across the study. He scanned his thumbprint, and the door clicked open.
The dimly lit room held a rectangular oak table with six leather and chrome chairs. Indirect lighting along the ceiling cast an eerie shadow in the room. Individual table lamps, their bases shaped like iron crosses, lit each end of the conference table. The rug was a dark blue, Marine blue.
Oliver checked the room as usual. The ceiling had been lined with thick black acoustical tiles. He had the room swept weekly for listening devices such as directional microphones and other bugs the bureaucrats might try to slip into his inner sanctum.
He waved Kaminsky into the room.
The fat man headed toward the bar.
Oliver treated his guests well. The bar was stocked with liquor, wine, and brandy. A small refrigerator next to the bar held snacks, soft drinks, and beer.
Oliver sat in his chair at the head of the table. He pushed a buzzer under the table to close the door and lock it. “Now, let’s talk frankly.”
Kaminsky poured more bourbon in his glass. He moved to the table, sitting down with a groan. He shifted his belly before he talked. “We have unlimited opportunities to go after the government, show them up for the useless bastards they are.”
General Oliver forced himself to ignore the unpleasant characteristics of this man. “And?”
Kaminsky wiggled in his chair and took another drag on his cigarette. “I can’t believe that when the U.S. let the nuclear genie out of the bottle, they didn’t figure out how to handle waste materials. These materials have a shelf life of thousands of years, and in many places are being ignored. Waiting for us to come and get them. Their incompetence makes it easy for us.”
“Not easy, Kaminsky, but doable.” This fat prick had no concept of the work Oliver had done to prepare his soldiers for this mission.
“Please, Quentin. Did you know at last count, the Government Accounting Office reports around 1300 nuclear devices lost or stolen? Many of those devices have the capacity to kill or maim hundreds—turn several city blocks into nuclear waste areas.”
Oliver nodded. “Tell me more.” “Give me ten pounds of TNT and a pea-sized amount of cesium-137, and I’ll turn Philadelphia into a madhouse … shut it down. That doesn’t begin to address the long-term health risk.” The professor laughed and lit another cigarette. “We’ll show those bastards.”
“Cesium?” Oliver asked.
“Cesium is a byproduct from the fission of uranium and plutonium.”
Oliver knew that Kaminsky loved to lecture. He seemed to be entering that mode now. “What are the risks?”
“The average person absorbs about 360 millirem of radiation each year. At that level, the risk of developing cancer is about 1 in 10,000 … about the same as smoking seven packs of cigarettes.”
“What’s your point?” General Oliver reached up with his fingers to adjust his hearing aid.
“We can create absolute chaos. The health physics experts project that with exposure to between 5,000 and 10,000 millirem, the danger to unprotected civilians is minimal. But, my dear general, at higher levels, people will run for their lives.”
Oliver smiled when he thought about the fear and mayhem they could bring to a city. Two or three dirty bombs, and the government would plead for him to stop. “What about going after one of the nuclear plants?”
“Ah ha! Now you’re talking. I recently found out that Security Services is planning a number of upgrades at their plants, in the neighborhood of one hundred million dollars.”
“Does that include Three Mile Island?”
“Would you believe that training for the guards at the gates leaves a great deal to be desired?”
General Oliver tried to remember the front area of TMI. He had been given a tour four years before, prior to leaving active duty. “How do you know that?”
“From chatter on the Internet and newspaper reports. And … get this … they only have mock attacks on the plant to test security once or, at most, twice a year.”
“My concern is that we might not be able to get away. I think putting together our own dirty bombs might be more effective. How tough would that be?”
“Piece of cake. There’s a college nearby with a grammator that contains enough cesium-137 to trigger a disaster. The material comes either in a powder form or a silver-gray metal. The powder would be perfect to put into an explosive device.”
“What is a grammator?”
Professor Kaminsky lit another cigarette. “A grammator can be used to conduct irradiation experiments on plants.”
“Plants? You mean like plants that grow in the ground?” Oliver smirked. “What bullshit.”
“Now, Quentin, don’t be judgmental. There are about 130 grammators in the States and around 10 percent of
those have been lost. At least the feds don’t know where they are. During their experiments, the students would expose beans to radiation, then plant the beans to see the effect on their growth.”
“What a waste! Why don’t those sniffling little pricks join the Marines, where we can teach them a thing or two?”
“Ah, Quentin, remember what the Marines did to you.”
Oliver swallowed to keep from lashing out at Kaminsky. He would take care of him when this operation was over.
“The protocols fell out of favor, but guess what? The schools can’t get rid of the machines or the nuclear material. The feds haven’t designated a place to put them so they’re sitting there, just waiting for us to come and get them.”
The general leaned forward. “Can we get at it?”
“No problem. All we need is time, a team, and a method to transport the cesium. Then we’ll need a box with lead lining to block the gamma rays from the cesium. I know where we can buy a storage safe that is lined with lead.”
Oliver looked up at the ceiling, brought his eyes down to look at Kaminsky, then ran a finger around his cheek. He nodded. “That’s good. Yes, very good.”
“With a little ingenuity, we could contaminate one hell of an area and create unspeakable chaos,” Kaminsky continued. “A dirty bomb can cause astronomical financial losses, from panic and fear, not loss of life. High intensity exposure will kill you within hours. But if the IED is set off in a building, the immediate casualties will be low. Body count is not that important, and the actual radiation level is quite low.” He smiled. “No one believes that, but set one off and sit back.”
Oliver rubbed his hands together. He could feel his destiny opening before him. The government would plead with him to stop.
“The Nuclear Regulatory Commission tracks radioactive material at more than twenty thousand sites through routine applications. When the schools submit their applications for license renewal, they must show the floor plans of the building where the material is stored.”
Kaminsky sat with his hands resting on his protruding belly. He set his glasses on the table, then picked the glasses up and pointed for emphasis. “Get this. One application I copied contains not only the location of the device, but also a map of a natural gas pipeline underneath the facility. They provided details on the estimated damage an explosion near that pipeline could cause.”